‘Well?’ said Lane coldly. ‘What now, Morgan?’
‘A lot depends. Get a rope, Spike.’
‘Just what’s the idea of a rope?’ asked Hashknife.
‘Keep yore nose out of it,’ growled Morgan. ‘I’d advise you two to high-tail out of this country. About the time we tell folks about findin’ yuh here, hobnobbin’ with a man wanted for murder, they might talk of more ropes.’
‘Oh, is this man wanted for murder?’
‘You know damn well he is! Wasn’t that girl at the inquest? Don’t try to be funny.’
Spike Cahill stepped in and flung out the coils of his rope, preparatory to roping Paul Lane.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Nan. ‘Don’t put a rope on him. Dad will go to jail peacefully.’
‘Jail, eh?’ Spike laughed softly. ‘Yuh think he will? After we exhibit him in Mesa City? Guess ag’in, sister.’
‘You better put your hands up,’ said a voice at the doorway to the kitchen, and the captors jerked around to see Rex Morgan, holding the heavy, double-barrel shotgun against his shoulder, the twin muzzles covering them.